THE HOUSE OF FAITH
I would not have thee, dear, in darkness sit,
On days like this, hand clasped in quiet hand,
Remembering mournfully that fragrant land--
Each day therein, the joy we had of it.
Rather, while still the lamps are trimmed and lit,
Bid strangers to the feasts that once we planned,
Merry the while! Until the dust's demand
My soul, not thine, shall separately submit.
So, when thou comest (for I at last will call
And thou shalt hear, and linger not at all),
Still to thy throat, thine arms, thy loosened hair
Will cling the savour of the World's fresh kiss,
So sweet to me! and doubly sweet for this--
That thou for mine shouldst leave a place so fair!
THE HOUSE OF TEARS
When in the old years I had dreams of thee
Thy dark walls stood in a most barren place;
And he within (was his wan face my face?)
Wandered alone and wept continually.
There was no bird to hear, nor sun to see,
Nor green thing growing; nor for his release
Came sleep; neither forgetfulness nor peace:
Whereby I knew that none had sinned as he.
To-day I met him where white lilies gleam;
Across our path we watched the sparrows flit;
Until--the sunlight strong in our dry eyes--
He paused with me beside a green-edged stream,
Moaning, "I know, where its young waters rise,
Remembering, one leaneth over it."
THE HOUSE OF LOVE
Often between the midnight and the morn
I wake and see the angels round my bed;
Then fall asleep again, well-comforted.
I wait not now till that clear dawn be born
Shall lead my feet (O Love, thine eyes are worn
With watching) where her feet have late been led;
Nor lie awake, saying the words she said--
(Her yellow hair.--Have ye seen yellow corn?)
I fall asleep and dream and quite forget,
For here in heaven I know a new love's birth
Which casteth out all memory. And yet
(As I had loved her more, O Christ, on earth,
Hadst Thou not been so long unsought, unmet)
Some morrow Thou shalt learn my worship's worth.
THE HOUSE OF BEAUTY
She pauseth; and as each great mirror swings
(O ruined Helen, O once golden hair)
I see Œnone's ashes scattered there.
Another, and, behold, the shadowed things
Are violated tombs of shrunken kings.
And yet another (O, how thou wert fair!),
And I see one, black-clad, who prayeth where
No sound of sword on cloven helmet rings.
Yet, were I Paris, once more should I see
Troy's seaward gates for us swung open wide.
Or old Nile's glory, were I Anthony.
Or, were I Launcelot, the garden-side
At Joyous Gard. Surely; for even to me,
Where Love hath lived hath Beauty never died.
THE HOUSE OF CONTENT
Were once again the immortal moment mine
How should I choose my path? The path I chose
(How long ago I wonder if Time knows)
Even now I see. I see the old sun shine
Upon the moss, thick strewn with fir and pine;
The open field; the orchard's even rows;
The wood again; then, where the hills unclose,
Far off at first, now near, the long-sought shrine.
O Time, how impotent thou art! Though thou
Hast taken me from all things, and all things
From me,--although the wind of thy swift wings
Hath swept at last the shadow from her brow
Of my last kiss, yet do I triumph now
Who, choosing, paused to hear Love's counsellings.
THE HOUSE OF CHANGE
Was it last Autumn only, when I stood
At the field's edge, and watched the red glow creep
Among the leaves, and saw the swift flame sweep
From spruce to hemlock, till the living wood
Became a devastated solitude?
For now, behold, old seeds, long years asleep,
Wake; and a legion of young birches leap
To life, and tell the ashes life is good.
O Love of long ago, when this mad fire
Is over, and the ruins of my soul
With the Spring wind the old quest would resume,--
When age knocks at the inn of youth's desire,
Shall the new growth, now worthier of the goal,
Find still untenanted the chosen room?
THE HOUSE OF REGRET
It is not that I now were happier
If with the dawn my tireless feet were led
Along her path, till I saw her fair head
Thrown back to make the sunshine goldener:
For it is well, sometimes, the things that were
Are over, ere their perfectness hath fled;
Lest the old love of them should fade instead,
And lie like ruins round the throne of her.
Now with the wisdom of increasing years
I know each ancient joy a cup for tears;
Yet had I drunk, while they were draughts to praise,
Deeper, I were not now as men that grow
Old, and sit gazing out across the snow
To dream sad dreams of wasted summer days.
THE HOUSE OF WISDOM
I had not thought (ah, God! had I but known!)
That this sad hour should ever me befall,
When thou I judged the holiest of all
Should come to be the thing I must disown.
Was it not true? that April morn? thy blown
Gold hair around my hair for coronal?
Or is this truer?--thou at the outer wall,
Unroyal, and with unrepentant moan?
Yet prize I now this wisdom I have won,
Who must always remember? Nay! My tears
Must close mine eyes--as thou wouldst hide thy face
If some great meteor, kindred to the sun,
Should haunt the undying stars ten million years
To fall, some noon, dead in thy market place.
THE HOUSE OF SIN
When Time is done at last, and the last Spring
Fadeth on earth, and thy gaze seeketh mine,
Watch well for one whose face beareth for sign
The legend of a soul's refashioning:
As I shall watch for one whose pale hands bring
The first faint violet, and know them thine
Grown pitiful and come to build Love's shrine
Where the old Aprils wait, unfaltering.
Then the great floods between us will retire,
And the long path I follow down will grow
To be the path thy climbing feet desire;
Until we meet at last, made glad, and know
The cleansing hands that made my soul as snow
Have kept alive in thine the ancient fire.
THE HOUSE OF MUSIC
Such space there is, such endless breadth of time
Between me and my world of yesterday,
I half forget what sounds these be that stray
About my chamber, and grow and fall and climb.
Listen!--that sweet reiterated chime,
Doth it not mark some body changed to clay?
That last great chord, some anguish far away?
Hark! harmony ever now and faultless rhyme.
O Soul of mine, among these lutes and lyres,
These reeds, these golden pipes, and quivering strings,
Thou knowest now that in the old, old years
We who knew only one of all desires
Came often even to music's furthest springs--
To pass, because their waters gleamed like tears.